Confusion in her eyes that says it all. She’s lost control. And she’s clinging to the nearest passer by, She’s lost control. And she gave away the secrets of her past, And said I’ve lost control again, And of a voice that told her when and where to act, She said I’ve lost control again.
And she turned around and took me by the hand And said I’ve lost control again. And how I’ll never know just why or understand She said I’ve lost control again. And she screamed out kicking on her side And said I’ve lost control again. And seized up on the floor, I thought she’d die. She said I’ve lost control. She’s lost control again. She’s lost control. She’s lost control again. She’s lost control.
The paladins have a ~lot~ of inside jokes. The Atlas crew gets confused/concerned by this because on what planet is the proper response to anything ‘Shut your Quiznak’. And shouting ‘We had a bonding moment’ at people is just weird
I recently decided to reread the Outsiders and was cruelly reminded of how in love I am with all of them.
Please enjoy what might be a long episode of me obssessively writting for my favorite greasy, long-haired boys.
Warnings: None, a lil fluffy tho.
It felt like fire and ice — your skin, frozen to lengths as far and deep as Antartica, against the bare warmth of him.
Pony’s hands wrapped around yours, and he breathed hot air into your palms to bring your temperature up along with the occasional sweet kiss to your lips to keep your lips from numbing up from the wind.
These cold Tulsa nights were inevitable, but you and Pony didn’t pay it too much mind. It was fun, you enjoyed the whimsical feeling of a typical love story being your own just as much as he did. While your older sisters called it “puppy love”, you knew what you had with Pony was much sweeter, too warm to be limited to something so small and as temperary as a puppy.
“I’m perfectly warm, Pony,” You promise, barely lying through your teeth as they helplessly chatter. “Tell me again, that poem, about that guy who started seeing the sky turn purple after his wife died.”
Pony’s lips stretch into a humored smile, “Your tears ain’t gonna make you no warmer. You cry every time.”
Your eyes lift to look at him, “I wanna hear it.”
Truth be told, you’d asked him to recite it so often that you had each and every word etched into your very bones. But you liked the sound of his voice, the way he somehow recited each line not so that the rhymes were not emohasized but so that the story was understood the way it was supposed to be. You liked the warmth of his tone even if the poem itself was cold.
Pony hums, still cradling your numbed fingers in his palms.
“The farmer looks from the ground, to a sky of blue, pink and orange–”
